King of Serpents: Game of Shadows
by karatemaster101
Summary: There can only be two sides to a game of chess, unless someone plays on both sides at once. Another genius villain joins the mix, throwing the already delicate balance of powers on its side. Three of the greatest magical beings pitted against one another in deadly trials, only one can emerge victorious, and no, this isn't the Triwizard Tournament we're talking about.
1. A Summer to Remember

**Thanks for all the support so far; I really, really appreciate it. Without further ado, here's book 4. First chapter is sort of a filler but things will pick up really quickly.  
**

* * *

_From the notebooks of I. Emmawor Locke_

**FOREWORD**

It is with great enthusiasm that I embark on my first journey in a series of quests to understand the properties of the universe. For me, science is the true purpose of the existence of mankind. Many would ask, why am I not in Ravenclaw House, if I value knowledge that much?

If you knew how I came across this knowledge, then there would be no more doubt about why the Sorting Hat placed me in Slytherin when I was eleven. Alas, it is _because _of my means to those ends that I must keep silent.

Nevertheless, dear reader, I doubt you could hurt me. Despite my controversial methods, I have never done anything…illegal. Or perhaps I have, but have never left any evidence. It matters not. No one shall ever know. In any event, for safety's sake, I request that some of my marked discoveries remain unpublished until after my death, for though I am no Seer, I can foresee that the lawsuits and troubles my more… _interesting_ notes will surely bring me far outweigh any money I may make from them. Very few could even hope to understand my ideas, but I am confident that nearly everyone can find some form of offense.

* * *

_The Horcrux_

_The secrets of the darkest art_

_With them I shall never part_

_For the eyes of only me_

_Descendants for eternity_

_Betrayal is just that – a curse_

_A traitor creates his own hearse_

_But beware, the secrets read_

_Must be kept and not be said_

_And now! The choice is yours_

_Be safe or cursed forevermore_

_Turn now before it is too late_

_Or carry on and seal your fate_

_If going on is the path you take_

_These secrets learned shall help you make_

_Immortality for a mortal man –_

_But the sacrifice will leave you damned_

_The living soul remains intact_

_Contained in life – a natural fact_

_The violation is – to tear it apart_

_For an eternally beating heart_

_To split the soul requires force_

_From an act so evil, with no remorse_

_The taking of a human life_

_End their own, and increase your strife_

_Your final act is their death knell_

_Send another's soul to hell_

_In doing so, create your own_

_And live in it – and you alone_

_Take the piece that you have felled_

_And rip it out – the scripture's spell_

_Your earthbound soul, never replaced_

_Conceal the fragment in a solid case_

_Hide your soul and guard it well_

_In two places your life shall dwell_

_Protect it from all around_

_Do not ever let it be found_

_Your body parts, but a fraction remains_

_Tethered physically to the living domain_

_Unchanged shall be body and face_

_In the living, forever hold your place_

_But not all is what it seems_

_The fractured soul is on extremes_

_The heart as cold as ice shall be_

_But rages chaos and instability_

_Know now! A dependent parasite_

_The container dies, the soul takes flight_

_And forever be destroyed_

_And left will be an empty void_

_Regret shall be your only cure_

_Much pain you shall endure_

_Or otherwise, beware these three_

_That will damper your immortality_

_One: the venom of the Serpent King_

_The cure is rare in the making_

_Two: the fiends of flame_

_Cursed fire that bears its name_

_The last is both the beginning and end_

_To take the guardian and lose the friend_

_And both shall lay and breathe one breath_

_He conquers you – and that is Death._

"Artemis, what is that?" his father asked.

"An old scroll I found. I can't understand it, however," Artemis lied smoothly. _Yes…I can't understand why wizarding culture places so much emphasis on such primitive rhyme and meter, at least… _"Only a few of the runes are familiar, and even then they don't translate properly."

"Oh, that?" his father asked. Artemis Sr. knelt down and took it from his son's hands, examining it carefully with the practiced hand of an experienced moneymaker. Finally, he proclaimed, "I think I remember this. It's been in the vaults for generations. My father – your grandfather – informed me of its existence shortly before he died. He said it was extremely important and dangerous, and that it contained an extremely deadly secret that we had to keep safe. He never knew why or what the secrets were, though – neither did my grandfather, or great-grandfather…or any of your ancestors, really. I would destroy it, but I didn't want to accidentally release some sort of hidden curse or potentially ruin something that might possibly be the next greatest discovery of the ages."

"Well, it isn't as if we can get arrested for something we don't know," Artemis said. "As far as I'm concerned, the object itself hasn't actually hurt anyone. Even if the Manor was subjected to an Auror raid, this scroll can't incriminate us, since there is no direct proof that it is Dark. For all anyone knows, you might be right – this could have been just a valuable historical artifact that someone picked up on a world tour."

His father nodded. "Pretty much. It's a smart way to keep a secret, I'll admit – it's rather difficult to give away information that you don't know. To be honest, if I hadn't known that the scroll was so important and dangerous, I would have had it auctioned off to some collectors. Something of that age would have definitely fetched millions of Galleons."

"But you're afraid that whoever gets his hands on it might actually know what they're doing, and use it against us," Artemis completed his father's thoughts for him.

"Right you are. Well, we might as well keep it safe for now, since all we know is its worth and not why. Who knows – perhaps you'll come up with some sort of innovative way to decode it."

Too bad Artemis already had.

* * *

True to his word, Butler had begun a summer training program for Artemis. "If you're going to be running around ex-convicts, regardless of their innocence, you had better be ready."

When his parents had heard the news, they were both elated that Artemis finally took his physical education seriously.

"Isn't it wonderful!" Angeline gushed. "Maybe you'll even be able to play Quidditch at school!"

Artemis didn't bother to point out that a) he didn't want to play Quidditch or any sport, b) he wasn't very keen on getting himself hurt for fun (what sick sadist thought _Bludgers_ were a good idea? _Honestly_), and c) all the spots on the Slytherin House team were pretty much set for the next three years, anyway. Artemis had no interest in using his physical strength for anything more than he had to, and was only taking Butler's course for basic survival due to his experience in things that he technically wasn't supposed to be doing anyway.

Artemis Sr. had been quite pleased, as well, but for different reasons – the more practical side, as he put it. "A great deal of good wizards have lost their lives simply because they couldn't run fast enough." _That was definitely true_, Artemis thought with a wince.

At first, things had been extremely difficult for Artemis. It was only then that he realized just how out of shape he really was, having never done a joule of genuine labor for all thirteen-going-on-fourteen years of his life. Butler had tried to begin with a basic white belt training unit from Madame Ko, only to realize that even that was too much for his young charge.

So now, Artemis was forced to spend his time running laps and doing push-ups instead. (He had been mortified when he realized that he couldn't even do one decent push-ups). "You _might _be able to start Madame Ko's training program if you keep this up throughout the entire summer," Butler teased.

Artemis had hated every single minute of this. He knew it was good for him, but it took so much effort on his part. Now he knew how it felt for "mortals" to understand his level of thinking.

At least it was a good distraction for his parents from the Animagus project. Artemis wondered how many of his other friends were doing their "summer homework from Professor Zabini." Blaise would definitely be trying to make the potion – he was pretty decent in that class and knew how to follow instructions. In any case, he was the ringleader of their group when it came to becoming an Animagus. Artemis wondered what his friends would be. Blaise being a monkey was a continuing joke in their group, although Artemis wouldn't be surprised if it had been actually true.

And what would he be? Artemis shrugged and took another tablespoon of the potion. It tasted bad, but it was not much worse than spending the entire summer "working out." He supposed he would find out later, and began meditating.

By July, though, Artemis had gotten slightly better. He had become more enduring, developing his slow muscle bit by bit. He could run 1.6 kilometers without collapsing by now, although his time was still atrocious in Butler's point of view (9 minutes and 54 seconds was his personal record). And he could do ten whole push-ups. Kind of. The final five were "Artemis-style" push-ups (meaning that his elbows barely bent).

He would never gain as much muscle as Butler, but he could care less. In fact, he did not care if he emerged from Butler's training program as thin and aristocratically built as before. All Artemis wanted was to be strong enough to survive the next time a troll came along.

His voice had cracked during that time – at least it was at home, with only understanding adults around and a slightly immature teenage Juliet to tease him, not at school where things would be ten times as embarrassing. Artemis had begun _puberty_…right on schedule, too. Dear lord. At least he had been prepared for it.

Artemis supposed that he should consider himself one of the lucky ones. All he had to go through was a voice change and a growth spurt (and possibly some teenage hormones affecting his mind later. Thinking about things scientifically always helped). He had seen some of the older girls at school reduced to tears over something as trivial as acne. Although he had been quite unsympathetic at first, he now understood why it was such a big deal. (In Blaise's own words – "a face as beautiful as mine should not have to suffer.")

Perhaps it was just genetics, or good (to the level of practically obsessive-compulsive) hygiene on his part. Or maybe the pimples were too afraid to share the same face as his vampire smile. Artemis grinned. Now there was an excuse to keep smiling.

Puberty was bad enough on its own, but now his mother began force-feeding him more and more food, claiming that he was a growing boy. Artemis Sr. had unsympathetically chuckled at the scene and completely ignored the torture that his wife was imposing on her own son!

_Thanks a lot, Father._

_You're welcome, son. _

At least the half-foot height gain that ensued somewhat helped. However, his thin frame never really filled out. Rather, his rapid vertical growth accompanied by a practically constant girth throughout the entire process left him with an even lankier appearance than before.

Angeline continued to complain that his growth was too similar to an elastic rubber band as an excuse to feed him more.

Artemis would counter by correcting her definition of elastic growth.

"Firstly, the true physical definition of 'elasticity' is the ability of an object to return to its original state after it has been deformed. As you can clearly see, I have not yet returned to my original height before my growing phase began. Secondly, when rubber bands _do_ stretch, their lengths and widths are indirectly proportional. However, my width has been completely constant, and has not shrunk at all. Thirdly, I have actually gained weight at a statistically healthy rate directly proportional to my height gain, so there is no need to worry. Thus, I advise you to look into concrete quantitative evidence instead of simply making qualitative judgment from the heavily biased viewpoint of a mother towards her offspring alone. That is all."

Unfortunately, logical reasoning never seems to work with mothers. Or parents in general.

What a pity.

As a sort of apology of his lack of action against his wife's oppressive mothering (or rather, his _inability_, as Artemis realized after repeated failed attempts to oppose such a strong-willed woman like Angeline), his father had begun his Legilimency practice again. They were now working on speed – to be able to read a person's mind at a quick glance – eye contact for less than a second. Artemis was doing well, but he still needed consistent practice on a mind already well-trained in Occlumency like his father's. So far, he could pick up some smaller memories, but the more well-guarded ones still took time to search for.

Also, Artemis' father had also taken him up on a little bit of wandless magic training. Professor Snape had promised them many years before, but with all of the drama involving someone trying to kill Harry Potter or at least putting him in danger of some sort, they had never got around to that.

It required a lot of concentration and calming of the mind. That was easy.

"_Accio wand_," he said. His wand came sailing back into his own hand.

Artemis had the concept down in a day, much to his father's awe. He even managed to perform some simpler spells nonverbally as well. Closing the curtains, opening the curtains, levitating a teacup from the top drawer to the table, opening his books…magic would make him _so _lazy.

"I'm not surprised, Artemis. Your great intellect allows you to pick up magic – especially mental magic – more quickly than most people."

"I know that the Ministry is unable to tell that I'm performing underage magic in our home because they can't differentiate between different Traces," Artemis began carefully. "How do they even track the Trace, anyway?"

"Well," Artemis' father said, completely unaware of his son's manipulative machinations for once, "all wizards are automatically registered in the Ministry files the day they purchase their wands. The Ministry's detection spells are not that advanced, however, which is why they can't distinguish between magical signatures or how old it is. They can only tell where they come from. It's a flawed system, because it basically means that only children that come from non-magical households get punished for underage magic, while the more lenient households who do not enforce that rule can claim that it was the magic of an adult instead."

"I see," Artemis said.

"There's numerous ways to get around that by masking your magical signature, too," Artemis' father continued obliviously. "Wizards over the centuries have invented potions and spells for that purpose, though many of them don't work now because the Ministry hires people to invent stronger trackers to counteract that. There's always ways to doubly counter even those tracking spells, however."

That was probably not the best fact to tell Artemis Fowl II. Luckily, his father did not catch the mischievous grin and the slight darkening of his face for that second, or the metaphorical thunder and lightning that crackled ominously outside.

* * *

_One month later_

He now appreciated his parents for bringing Muggles into their world – wizards, due to their magic, had become complacent, and thus most were relatively out of shape. He would never have learned these things from house-elves. It was evident that he would never be as strong as Butler, but…

Artemis grit his teeth as he keeled over in another fresh wave of pain. Admittedly, this had not been one of his more brilliant ideas. He only felt grateful that Butler had forced him into improving his physical strength the Muggle way, or he would never have survived this – at best, he would have come out with a damaged mind (which was, in his opinion, definitely a fate worse than death.) Under the Cruciatus Curse, he could shut down his own consciousness, but in this case, he _had _to remain alert.

Simply put, the Ministry automatically kept track of every magical person born. Everyone's magic exuded a unique blueprint, and while Ministry technology was nowhere as sharp as Artemis' computers (hence why they could not detect differences in who cast magic) it could detect magic nonetheless, as well as how old the person was based on the amount of time that certain magic had been in existence. If a strong magical source and a weaker magical source were together, the detectors would attribute whatever magic was cast to the stronger source. Thus, a magical child surrounded by magical parents would have his or her magic attributed to the older wizards (and if the child was somehow the one stronger, the foolish Ministry would think it to be the parents nonetheless). A magical child, on the other hand, would overpower a house-elf or a goblin simply because they were smaller. And all magic could be cancelled out by a powerful set of wards, such as the ones around Hogwarts.

But Artemis couldn't carry around an adult all the time, and even if he could ward _himself _somehow, it wouldn't help if he was alone. The wards themselves exuded magic, allowing any sort of magical detector to find him, and only if he was in an established magical building could he pass it off as his surroundings. Should he have to hide in a forest somewhere, this method would not help at all.

The solution? Fake or hide his own magical signature. And since faking his magical signature was pretty much suicidal, he would have to go with the second option – which was only slightly less risky and painful.

It had taken Artemis one month. One week to do all the research he needed (which wasn't much; he already had plenty of information on magical signatures following his father's rescue from Russia), and three to engineer a solution. Which was a stretch, even for Artemis. A lot of it had been luck; everything in the Universe was layered with some level of uncertainty and randomness and it just so happened that a lot of the paths Artemis chose at random were correct on the first try.

The potions and spells would coat his body in a permanently reflective layer, so that whatever magic Artemis radiated would automatically rebound back into his body. This was why the process was risky. Wizards naturally had to release magic, or else they would collapse under their own energy. But Artemis had planned for this. He had added a second component to the anti-Trace shields, which would channel that reflected energy to his wand instead of his body. Thus, Artemis could maximize his own magical efficiency without overloading his own core in the process.

(Unfortunately for Artemis, there really _was _such a thing as being too smart for his own good.)

* * *

_From the notebooks of I. Emmawor Locke_

**Magical Signatures**

I shall take this opportunity to temporarily diverge from my current train of thought, due to the complexity that it shall take later on. Instead, I shall focus on something quite simpler – the Magical Signature.

Every individual capable of using magic sheds some energy of their own, similar to how all living things radiate body heat. Magical signatures, however, are very clear-cut and easy to distinguish. Whereas infrared radiation is a form of electromagnetic radiation, and radiates similarly no matter where it is, magical energy has the ability to be more varied. To distinguish two different magical energies from one another is as simple as distinguishing a gamma ray from a radio wave, given the proper tools, of course. By now I hope that you have purchased (or, if you are too cheap to buy one yourself, have borrowed or stolen a copy) my _Magical Applications_ textbooks on science, because if you do not know what a gamma ray is, you will be in a world of pain when I make later references.

The magical signature is determined by genetic code, and is unique to the individual. Just like how no two individuals share the same set of fingerprints, even twins, the magical signature can be used to distinguish a wizard, even one that is disguised, either by Polyjuice Potion or some other form of Transfiguration.

That is not to say that a magical signature cannot be faked. I have tried this before, on a simulated body, and with success. However, to fake one's magical signature is an extremely dangerous thing, for it drains the magical core extremely rapidly, and can cause many lethal side effects after extended use. The reason is, repeated changes to the magical signature can eventually create an entirely new magical signature – but residing in the same body. As the two magical energies battle for dominance over one body, the force may be enough to cause extreme physical damage, usually within the brain. To fake one's magical signature repeatedly is akin to exposing oneself to radiation repeatedly in hopes of mutating one's DNA: it will happen, but the mutated cells would more likely cause cancer than changing one's appearance.

The safer route to cheating the magical signature system is to either hide or duplicate one's own magical signature – although this is quite taxing as well. Unlike faking a magical signature, which never went past simulated-body tests, hiding or duplicating a magical signature was not very difficult or damaging, to either a test body or myself. Frankly, I do not feel inclined to demonstrate how doing either of these things would be possible – only that it is, and that I have succeeded in doing both. If you are intelligent enough to figure out how it is done, then I applaud you, and ask for your contact information. Otherwise, you are out of luck. There is only one hint: it does not involve a spell, or incantation, or even a wand at all.

Well, I now see that I have excluded about 99% of the population. Well done. (We are too dependent on our wands, in my opinion…but that's a different paper.)

I find that research into magical signatures would be an extremely profitable investment on the Ministry's part. It would reduce the amount of false-positives in the Trace. For example, one of my…acquaintances, who lived with Muggles, was visited by a house-elf that performed magic in the vicinity. This acquaintance was subsequently blamed for the magic that the house-elf performed. If the Trace also incorporated magical signatures, such things would not be happening.

I would be happy to help the Ministry of Magic rectify this situation. As I enjoy my privacy, negotiations may be discussed through external communications.

Also, perfection of control over magical signatures would make Tracking Charms much more effective. Normally, to find an individual, one would have to catch them first and _then _place the Tracking Charm. This is only useful in the case of a paroled criminal. But a criminal – or any person, really – that has never been caught with a Tracking Charm can be found as long as one has had a sample of his or her magic. Remnants of a spell performed should easily provide this information. I believe that Hogwarts preserve residual magical signatures for several years before they are dissolved into the structure, and less enchanted buildings hold them for even longer. Muggle houses could potentially preserve this residue for many decades, before it finally escapes into the environment.

There are probably many other uses for the Magical Signature, but I am feeling too selfish to list them at the moment.

* * *

_An Undisclosed Location_

"Interesting," he whispered to himself, examining his hands. They were bony, cold, and skeletal. His fingertips were cold, but nothing could change that; in his youth he had always had cold fingers, whether it was in the summer or the winter. Initially the pixie had offered to return to him a human body, but he had declined. His human body…he had looked like his _worthless _father. And he would rather resemble a great beast, a great monster, than stoop to that level again. He no longer needed the advantage of a handsome appearance. In his youth, he had been weak, penniless…nothing to prove himself with except for his power, his intelligence, and his appearance. In his youth, he had needed his appearance to win over those who believed they had power over him, because of their wealth and position.

Now, was no more. He no longer needed to cater to their whims. He had his own reputation now. He did not need that Muggle's face, not when he could have his own – a monstrosity, true, but a monstrosity that could strike fear into the hearts of man with a single look. And was that not the purpose of his rule? In his school days he had controlled his fellows with his handsomeness. But now, it was with an even better power – intimidation.

The pixie's magic was certainly strong, though. Strong enough to restore his youth…but that was about the only thing those fairies could do, wasn't it? Healing. Talking in multiple languages. And their hypnosis, their _Mesmer_…well, was that not just a combination of the Imperius Curse and the Confundus Charm?

And even then they had to constantly recharge their strength, and follow some very inconvenient rules.

Pathetic.

He, however, was not stupid. For all her lack of magical strength, the pixie was incredibly intelligent. He was actually glad, glad that she did not have wizards' magic, because then she would really be a threat. As it was, though, her brain was no match against a well-aimed _Avada Kedavra_. Her kind may have had an extended lifespan and automatic healing, but in the end, they were mortal, just like anything else.

"I hope you're satisfied," she smirked, deliberately leaving out his title. She knew that she was currently indispensable to him; as meager as her powers were, they were clearly _different _from wizards' magic. Imagine that. An elfin being not bound to follow a wizard's orders (though bound, nonetheless, to her own people's rules). Her magic would be an easy way around any sort of human wards.

So now they were both stuck. She was stuck as his servant – and he was stuck with her as his servant. If she could be even called that. He had not Marked her; he could not. Her magic, despite being inferior, had protected her from the brand. And now, he would have to watch her carefully – as they dealt with one another directly, she would be as privy to his secrets as he to hers. In the end, all it would come to was who could kill the other first once both of their whims were satisfied.

"For now," he whispered back.

(White pawn to e3.)

* * *

Somewhere, Harry Potter woke up with a scream.

* * *

**A/N: In the words of Ed Byrne, my favorite Irish comedian (sorry Dara): "You can't win an argument with a parent."**


	2. The Time Thief

_So apparently the chapter was deleted. I was only planning to reupload to fix some line breaks. Now I feel stupid. Sorry to those of you who were looking forward to read something and ended up seeing nothing._

* * *

**I got all 5s on my AP tests! That brings my total count up to 9! *nerdy victory dance***

**I still have no idea how I even passed Physics, though…I remembered absolutely nothing about electricity & magnetism and left about half of the FRQs blank…**

******P.S. Amazing job by Germany, and good luck to them in the finals. #FIFAismyLIFE  
**

**Yeah, anyway, I was so happy that I just sat down and wrote this one. Chapter 2, here we go! In which Artemis checks off yet another item on his bucket list. **

* * *

_The Ministry of Magic_

He gave himself twenty minutes.

Twenty minutes to hold off the detectors before he collapsed of energy exhaustion.

"Are you ready, Butler?" Artemis asked.

Butler nodded uncomfortably.

It was probably the most idiotic – and yet, the most brilliant – plan Artemis had come up with to date.

That is, taking a Muggle into the Ministry of Magic.

Of course, Butler had been disguised – outside of the house, as he could not risk his parents seeing Butler under heavy glamours and wondering why). Currently, Butler still retained his enormous strength and large stature, though Artemis had given him blonde hair and the classic beard and moustache of a Scandinavian wizard, so that no one would question his size. Artemis, too, was magically disguised. His distinctly aristocratic features had been replaced with the face of a rather pudgy, dull-looking child – flat, squashed nose, heavy eyes, and curly, light brown hair. Together, they seemed to be a rather insignificant pair – probably foreigners, or maybe a first-generation immigrant, and his son, perhaps. Their robes showed that they were extremely middle-class. Not so pathetically poor that they would be booted out of the Ministry immediately, but not so rich that people would stare and wonder who they were, where they came from, if they were pureblood or not, how the general public had missed the coming of this unheard-of new money…

As for putting a Muggle in the Ministry of Magic…

Since Butler had no magical signature, and Artemis was hiding his own, they could theoretically pass underneath any sort of detectors without causing any disturbance whatsoever. And, if for some reason, there was…well, the Ministry would probably suspect the adult before the child. Not that Artemis told Butler this. It wasn't as if Butler would get into any sort of trouble… Butler knew that in case anything ever went wrong, he could just pretend he was a Squib whose magic had reawakened in his son (which was his backstory for this particular mission anyway), and then the Ministry would have to let him go.

Simple.

It was seven o'clock in the evening. The Ministry of Magic, in all respects, was like any other poorly-run, inefficient Muggle government bureaucracy, except for the fact that it had, well, magic. Most of the workers had left by five, eager to get home to their families; technically all of them had stopped working – as in producing something useful – by four-fifty in lieu of pointlessly killing the last ten minutes. The only ones still left were the extreme workaholics (*ahem* Percy Weasley *ahem*), or the ones with unhappy marriages, holed up inside their offices, and a few inexperienced Aurors serving the evening shift, also dying to get their tasks over with.

Seven o'clock. A perfect time for this heist. Seven o'clock was late enough for 90% of possible witnesses to be gone, and still early enough to not seem suspicious. Someone showing up at seven o'clock? Probably some silly foreigner who got lost. Someone showing up in the dead of night? Clearly, they were trying to steal something.

Timing was everything here. In more ways than one.

Since the Ministry was a public building, there was nothing preventing them from entering. All they had to do was trade in their wands in return for a visitor button.

Unfortunately for the Ministry, and fortunately for them, security was extremely lax. As expected from such a mediocre establishment. _Politicians. _Bah. Artemis sniffed in disgust. He was fourteen – not even that, yet; his birthday was on September 1st – and he could think of at least twenty-three better and similarly inexpensive ways to label visitors to the Ministry. Of course, most of those ways entailed methods using forms of magic not yet known to the world…

Regardless, just as there was only a system to detect magic being cast, not who cast it, there was only a system to detect that a wand had been given, not _whose _wand it was. Pilfering a pair of wands had been so easy it had been almost laughable – Artemis simply wandered into an extremely crowded store, suffered the company of other human beings for a few seconds, initiated physical contact, once, twice – and, voila! He and Butler exited with the wands of two wizards who had been careless and stupid enough to leave their wands sticking out of their back pockets.

Normally, Artemis did not condone petty thievery – why would he pickpocket when he could divert millions of dollars in stocks to his own account with a few simple keystrokes? Why would he steal gold anymore when he had the Philosopher's Stone, hidden right beneath his parents' noses? – but this was a special case. It was a minor theft, but it was one on the road to a far more massive heist. Just because he had an unlimited supply of gold now didn't mean he couldn't stop stealing.

Artemis examined the wands. One was eight inches, birch, perhaps. The other, fourteen inches, maybe? (The metric system was so much better…) The wood was a dark color, but not that dense. It didn't matter. They were two very insignificant wands. Eventually those wizards would discover their wands missing, and would either buy a new one, or report the theft to the auror office. Then, the aurors would probably find the wands already with the Ministry, and assume that those wizards were simply silly enough to drop their wands, and some kind, good-hearted soul had been honest enough to turn them into the Ministry for them. The wizards would then be sent off their way with a hearty admonition, and those wizards themselves would feel extremely lucky that nothing worse had happened. No harm done.

Now he and Butler seemed to be wandering aimlessly through the Ministry, going down some hallways, stopping at dead ends, staring at some walls, and then walking out. Occasionally, Butler would grab Artemis' shoulder and clout him lightly on the side of the head when Artemis dawdled in one spot for too long; other times, both of them would nod approvingly at the posters on the wall. Anyone tracking their movements – most likely some bored young Aurors – would think, beyond a doubt, that these were simply wizards new to England. One was a father, with a young, naïve, and abnormally tall son for eleven years of age (but they looked Scandinavian, so, once again, it was not a problem). These were probably folks who didn't like Durmstrang, an infamously Dark school somewhere in the middle of the North Sea, and therefore immigrated to England where they could get a better education.

Bless them, the poor souls, indeed.

Meanwhile, the _real _Artemis and Butler had masked their presences completely and were speeding down the hallways of the ninth floor of the Ministry of Magic.

* * *

_The Department of Mysteries_

Black tiles from floor to ceiling, with the only lighting provided by torches. Artemis vaguely wondered if the people working here had terrible eyesight, or if magic could slow or counteract the inevitable ocular damage. Artemis breathed slowly to calm himself. They had stepped into the Entrance Chamber.

The door clicked shut behind them.

"Close your eyes, Butler," Artemis ordered, and the doors whirled around them at a dizzying speed.

A normal person would have given up in despair at this point. Then again, normal person would have probably not even made it in here in the first place.

At it was, though, Artemis had brought along his magical sunglasses. Finding the correct door leading to the Time Room had been simple after that. A quick glance told him which door; a few more wand movements had unlocked it. He would have liked to stay around and explore the other laboratories, but that would have to wait for another day. A few discrepancies within the Time-Turner storage room might create some mild suspicion, but a missing Veil would be declared an international emergency.

_No time no time no time_

_The VEIL _

Suddenly Artemis felt himself being drawn, inexplicably, towards the Death Chamber.

Before he could even touch the door, however, Artemis halted himself – anything "inexplicable" did not suit Artemis, and he never followed random orders without a good reason, not even from himself. He understood the risks of trespassing here. There were probably many other obscure enchantments within the Department of Mysteries, not installed for security reasons, but simply because of the intrinsic nature of the magic being researched there. Artemis was not going to let something like the Veil tempt him, not when his rapidly whirling criminal mind was placing so much importance on this one little operation.

So Artemis clamped down his Occlumency shields once again, making sure to be especially disciplined in this case. Some small part of Artemis seemed to whine in…disappointment? Frustration? Artemis was not sure. However, there was no reason he should have been feeling disappointed or frustrated, so he ignored those sentiments – and emotionally isolated those bits of his mind the most strongly with his magic. Almost immediately, his mind fell silent, only focusing intently on this exact task right now. Concentration was key. Concentration and timing.

The Unspeakables, though smarter than most wizards, were still government workers – and researchers at that. Being the furthest removed from any military activity, and, in fact, any political activity, meant that they could set their own hours. As it was, all of them made a habit of leaving work before their required eight hours were over, and since they were so important, no one had ever called them out on it. Not that it mattered to Artemis; on the contrary, it only made his job here a lot more convenient.

A few more seconds, and Artemis had located the aisles carrying the Time-Turners. Viewing the wards through his glasses, Artemis made quick work of the spells, dismantling them within minutes. Unlike the Slytherin dormitories at Hogwarts, the wards over the Time-Turners were meant to be disabled and reinstated so that people could use them, and therefore, there were no double-wards or overlapping spells or infinity loops. As long as any protection spell was linear, removing them was as easy as untying a knot.

Artemis quickly grabbed several samples from each section of Time-Turners – the weakest ones with a maximum of a few hours, and the strongest ones, now with a maximum of two weeks (contrary to what Hermione had said). Still, two weeks was not a lot – clearly, these ones were rather new, the result of many months of successful experimentation, and not yet ready to be available to public knowledge. There were only five of them. Artemis took them all, and replaced them with duplicates that he had spelled to show signs of deterioration. For the weaker ones, he smashed some duplicates on the floor.

When the Unspeakables came back the next day, they would see the mess and, after careful examination, conclude that the stronger Time-Turners had been unstable. That would have been the simplest explanation for the deteriorated magic around the newest Time-Turners, and the smaller ones, which had broken as a result of a negative reaction to the radiating energy.

Time-Turners in his magically expanded pockets, Artemis calmly walked back out.

Two more minutes, and he and Butler were back out on the streets of Diagon Alley, on their way home, with no one the wiser.

Artemis felt like laughing uncontrollably in triumph for some odd reason, but he suppressed his internal desires. He was not a crazed madman; he could control himself. But still, he could not help but feel so giddy with his accomplishment. He had, after all, broken into one of the most carefully guarded chambers in the Ministry of Magic and escaped in fifteen minutes and twenty-seven seconds.

(Black pawn to e6.)

* * *

When he and Butler arrived home, his parents were smiling at him in a rather disturbing way. "How was your day, honey?"

"I'm sorry?" Artemis asked.

His parents shared a knowing look, and comprehension clicked in Artemis' brain.

Come to think of it, escaping home had been the most difficult part of the entire day.

His mother would normally never let him out of her sight without a thorough interrogation. Therefore, Artemis had come up with the extremely ingenious excuse that he was going out, and acted shiftily in a painfully obvious way when questioned about it. Naturally, Angeline had left him alone as a result, assuming that he was going out to meet someone.

Someone special.

Someone _very_ special.

Artemis had neither confirmed nor denied it. Well, it was her own fault for jumping to conclusions. Artemis had lied many times, but he could not be accused of lying on this occasion.

Now it was coming back to bite him in the behind.

"So, who was she?" Artemis Sr. asked with a gentle smile.

Artemis forced himself to blush and looked away. "No one! I was not meeting _anybody_, so drop it, will you?"

Merlin forbid, that Artemis Fowl had told the truth.

His parents shared another look, and Artemis turned away from them, running up the stairs to his room two steps at a time. Angeline and Artemis Sr. assumed that they had thoroughly embarrassed their own son, and did not follow him. Alas, if they had, they would have noticed that there was a smile on his face – not a happy, giddy grin that said, "I just met a cute girl today," but the triumphant smirk that came after every successful crime, the smirk that said "I just broke into the Department of Mysteries, stole some incredibly dangerous and highly regulated magical artifacts, and waltzed back out without encountering any trouble or suspicion whatsoever. Now, if you'll excuse me, I will be spending the rest of the week inside my room, experimenting."

* * *

_From the notebooks of I. Emmawor Locke_

The Unspeakables are fools indeed! No wonder magical development has been so stagnant in the past century!

For the longest time, they incorrectly believed that the strength of the a Time-Turner was stored within the sand! Evidently, this was all _belief_ – no scientific thought whatsoever. Barely one day of experimentation already helped me determine that the strength lay in the _structure_, not the sand. These Unspeakables – they increase the amount of sand, thinking that doing so will increase the time ceiling (that is, the maximum amount of time a Time-Turner can travel into the past or the future). And in fact, it does – since increasing the amount of time requires increasing the amount of glass used in making the turners!

The sand only provides the ability to travel through time in the first place. As long as there is a certain threshold of level of sand, it will be possible to travel through time. Sand with a higher concentration of magic requires less volume, and sand with a lesser concentration of magic requires more sand. Simple. After a certain point (I have determined this value to be 3.00E8 Ps, with one P being one unit of magical energy) increasing the amount of sand shows no obvious effect on the time ceiling.

Theoretically, this energy would go elsewhere, perhaps into a different dimension. More research on that later.

Unfortunately, this does not solve the problem of an infinite time ceiling. I have experimented with multiple substances, and so far, pure quartz seems to work best (in this sense the Unspeakables were not that far off the mark with their insistence of using glass). Time-Turners that get too large break easily, decrease in efficiency because of friction and gravity, and are basically impractical. In fact, the most efficient Time-Turner I have created so far is only three centimeters in height, and has a time ceiling of two years.

It seems that, should infinite time travel be a possibility, Time-Turners are not the ideal material. They have their uses, of course, but if we are to advance any more in this field it will not be through them. They have exhausted their usefulness, just as ballpoint pens should replace quills and ink.

* * *

Artemis stepped out of his laboratory, feeling extremely accomplished, when his eyes fell on the notebook on his desk. Artemis sighed, and mentally chastised himself. In his excitement over the Trace Purging and the Time-Turners, he had basically forgotten all about the his friends. The notebook cover was littered with scratches, indicating just how many messages he had missed from his friends.

Hastily flipping through the pages, Artemis found the most recent messages. It would not do to ignore his friends, after all. Like Juliet had said, he needed to give them some indication that he was still alive, after all.

_Dear Artemis,_

_How was your summer? We went traveling again. To East Asia this time. I have some pictures of a Chinese Fireball and a Vietnamese Water Dragon. They look pretty, but they're really feisty. We're coming back in time for the Quidditch World Cup, though. I hope to see you there. My dad's been acting strangely. He keeps disappearing at odd times and always returns looking extremely tired or scared. I just hope that it's the dragons burning, and not something else._

_Theodore_

Artemis hastily scribbled a reply.

_Dear Theodore, _

_This summer I have been staying at home, doing a great deal of research. Your photographs look interesting indeed. I am surprised that the sign in front of the Fireball reads "Does not eat pork." (Yes, I can read Chinese.) I would have expected "Keep away or have your head burnt off" instead._

_I heard that dragons tend to go for fully grown animals more than the young ones, unlike other predators that prefer the weaker prey. Stay unassuming, and you'll probably be safe – at least, until all the other food sources disappear and you're the only one left. _

_Artemis_

Hoping that Theodore had understood the hidden message in his letter, just as he had understood Theodore's, Artemis moved on to the next letter.

_Artemis, what's up?_

_Hopefully you've been doing your homework *wink wink nudge nudge* We're going back to the Room of Awesome in the fall._

_Lots of LOVE~_

_Blaise *wink wink nudge nudge*_

Artemis rolled his eyes. Of course Blaise would write that. But at least his purpose for writing was a – well, not exactly good; they _were _breaking several laws but – useful one. Artemis had actually experimented with potions before – since first year. Because of his knowledge of chemistry, physics, and calculus, he had been able to compute more exact quantities than the limitless wizards before him had.

**[PLEASE DO NOT BRICK AUTHOR FOR BAD, NERDY JOKE.]**

Many of the instructions in his Potions textbooks had been added to or modified – though, to anyone else but Artemis, of course, it looked like no changes had been made.

The Animagus potion was no exception. Normally it took years to become an Animagus; however, thanks to Artemis' research on the potion, he had been able to theoretically make it more efficient, cutting down the delay time to a quarter of the usual time. This had been one thing that he had actually shared to the world, or at least, to three people other than himself. Unfortunately, the various spells used for the transformation process were inconveniently already at their maximum efficiency. Artemis doubted that the wizards who had developed the Animagus theory knew this, but the unlucky fact still stood that there were no other improvements that could be made, without extremely risking one's health.

_Blaise,_

_If you are wondering what is up, many things are up. The stocks of Fowl Enterprises, for one. Yes, I have been doing my homework. What do you take me for?_

_And stop that. I am not Eva Bole._

_Artemis_

Only one letter left now. Thank goodness.

_Artemis –_

_I can't believe my father hasn't found out about our little escapade, yet. Your special friends must be very talented at covering up their tracks._

_I hope to see you at the Quidditch World Cup. My father does not. It's a good thing you gave us these communicator notebooks…my father searches the owls inbox._

_On another note, my father disappeared suddenly from the dinner table the other day holding his arm in pain. He left without excusing himself (which is extremely out of character in our household) and practically ran outside of the anti-Apparition ward boundaries of Malfoy Manor. Just thought you would want to know._

_Draco._

_P.S. I know Occlumency and Legilimency now. You better watch out._

Artemis smiled. He jotted down a reply.

_Draco –_

_That would be expected. My friends are very talented in what they do. And even though we are safe for now, be careful. Don't leave the notebook lying around and don't write in it in a place where someone could easily look over your shoulder. Like I told Theodore, dragons tend to save their breath when faced with the unassuming. Be unassuming._

_Artemis_

His mail finished for the day, Artemis returned to his computer, to type up his daily reports. His friends' situations had sadly reminded him of just exactly what everyone else was going through. While his family was safe, wrists all blank, their families had to return to Voldemort. While he got to enjoy his summer tinkering with Opal Koboi's notes, they were wondering if tomorrow their parents' hearts or minds would quit after one Cruciatus too many.

Artemis continued updating his logs. He hoped that Voldemort was still too busy with logistics issues to pay attention to his followers _too _much…

* * *

_An Undisclosed Location_

"You have disappointed me greatly," the Dark Lord hissed at his servants.

They all cowered meekly, pathetically, at his feet. Where was their noble aura, their cold grace now? Where was their pureblood pride? Where was their self-declared superiority? All of it, gone. Never before had Voldemort felt such contempt for his Death Eaters.

"My Lord, forgive us, please!" a particularly stupid one screamed, throwing himself at his feet, grasping the hem of his robes.

_"Crucio!" _If Lord Voldemort had been inclined to give any mercy before, the notion had been destroyed by this disgusting display. The man howled in pain. Evidently, his Death Eaters had not only grown dishonest and stupid, but complacent and weak. The last time he had seen them, they could last under the curse for minutes without uttering a single sound, all the while remembering their respect. Now, it seemed as if they had all forgotten their places. He should have known; it was what time did to people. His young, eager, quick soldiers had become fat, lazy, disabled slobs.

As much as he hated to admit it, he enjoyed that pixie's company far more than the useless oafs that he saw groveling before his feet today. Despite the fact that he could not trust her – he trusted nobody, after all – she was, at least, intelligent company. She was unpredictable, that one. He would play games with her for a while yet. To be honest, it was probably her fault that he could no longer stand the sight of the pathetic worms that had the audacity to call themselves Death Eaters, the potbellied, spoiled, middle-aged nobles who were already past their prime.

Disappointing. "You all believed me dead. You all abandoned me, thinking me weak enough to be defeated. You denounced my name, and returned to your grand, wasteful lives. If you had publicly lied, to preserve your positions of influence, while secretly trying to find me, I would have commended you for your cleverness. But none of you even tried. You all ran to the 'winning' side with your tails between your legs as soon as you had word of my supposed death. Only four stayed to look for me. _Four_. Out of how many?"

_"Mercy," _they chanted. Together. In unison.

Could they not think for themselves even one bit? He wanted his servants obedient, but not mindless! If he had wanted mindless automatons he would have just gotten himself an army of Inferi, and be done with it!

"Those four will be honored beyond all belief when they are freed. As for the rest of you…get out of my sight."

He cursed them once more, and the cowards fled.

Behind him, he could hear that damned pixie giggling.

"Crucio."

"You wish."

* * *

**A/N: So, to the confused anon from last chapter, hopefully that cleared up any questions about who "I am a warlock" was. **

**A lot of the "research" Artemis will be doing is, quite predictably, taken from the information he stole from Opal Koboi. He will definitely expand on them independently, but she does provide an experimental basis, which is why he will be making a lot more discoveries this year than the years prior. **

******I like reviews :3**


	3. Lord Voldemort's Secret

_Fowl Manor_

Artemis and his father had just finished their ninth round of spell dodging, and were starting back up on wandless and nonverbal spells. His father also gave him plenty of tips on dueling, including improving his Legilimency to the point where he could consistently and accurately predict his opponents' next movements and plans.

So saying, he dodged the Blinding Hex that his father sent him and retaliated with a nonverbal Binding Curse. Artemis Sr. failed to jump out of the way quickly enough and was immediately wrapped from head to toe in the glowing violet wires. His mother, who had been watching, clapped approvingly.

At that very moment, the fireplace burst into green flames, and Professor Snape stepped out. "Hello, Mr. Fowl," his Potions teacher said softly. He looked at Artemis Sr., who was currently bound on the floor, and at Artemis, who twirled his wand and grinned innocently, and Angeline, who looked away like she didn't know what was happening.

Professor Snape cocked an eyebrow. "Am I interrupting something?"

"Oh, no, please," Artemis smiled politely. "We were just finishing."

"It's not what it looks like," Artemis Sr. grumbled good-naturedly, a little ruffled at being caught disarmed on the ground in front of his own son by an old classmate. The countercurse was muttered swiftly, and the wires exploded away.

Professor Snape gave a rare smile, but it disappeared as quickly as it had come. "Dumbledore has declared an emergency."

At that, his father sobered up and became more formal, like usual. "There's only one reason he would do that. Please don't tell me…"

"Indeed. Dumbledore's starting it up again. I should have known that something like this would happen eventually – " Professor Snape ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "Apparently the Potter brat had a nightmare. Dumbledore, unfortunately, believes that it might be true. And so do I. Frankly, I would normally not believe anything that came out of the Potter brat's mouth, but seeing as it's been burning…" His left forearm twiched.

"We might as well start now instead of later," Artemis said quickly, understanding exactly what they were talking about. "Even if Voldemort hasn't returned yet, he will definitely figure out a way sooner or later. We must be prepared, especially since our history of Defense teachers have been sorely lacking."

Professor Snape nodded. "At least the Dark Lord is lying low for now. He wants to build up his strength…gain more supporters…attack from the inside. It's the best strategy, after all – a bit hard to conquer the world when the authorities are all after you, even if you are more powerful than that lot combined."

"He personally told the Death Eaters to go on as usual and lay low?" his mother asked.

"Yes, but they were to answer him at any summon," Professor Snape said, his right hand moving surreptitiously to his left forearm. Artemis knew what was there, and, evidently, so did his parents. "I don't know what else he's planning…I suppose that eventually they'll announce Voldemort's rebirth to the world. Probably in a rather spectacular way, maybe attempt to break any of the old supporters out of Azkaban. That means your brothers and Bellatrix." Angeline went rigid, and her face darkened – for a split second, she looked absolutely mad, like her infamous family members. But then she relaxed, and became her normal self again.

His father turned back to Professor Snape. "You are asking me to join."

"I am not forcing you to do anything," said Professor Snape, "I am personally warning you, and this has nothing to do with either the Order or the Death Eaters. The Dark Lord has been eyeing your family for some time. Rich, influential purebloods with a Slytherin history and a Dark affinity…he has wondered why you refuse to join him. Artemis is my student, and one of the best I've ever seen, at that; it would be a shame if anything were to happen to him and it is therefore my duty to inform his family of anything untoward events. The other parents don't need this discussion for obvious reasons."

"Does he understand that it is for the same reason Madame Zabini has never declared allegiance to any side?" Artemis Sr. asked, annoyed.

"Probably, but that will not stop his efforts. Luckily, he is more concerned with other things he deems to be more important than a simple recruiting campaign right now, so it will be a while before he decides to target your family again. The fact that you are of Irish descent will also shield you for a while longer as he is focusing his attention on the older, 'more desirable' English families. No offense, of course."

"None taken," said Artemis Sr. "Race does not matter to Gringotts."

Professor Snape smirked. "Indeed. I advise you to milk that geographical advantage for as long as you can. But be warned: when he does, it will not be as easy to get away. The Dark Lord overlooks Madame Zabini because she is traditionally not expected to fight, being female, but you…your son is old enough to care for himself now and you no longer have the same excuse as you did the first time."

"I shall extend as much help to Dumbledore as I can, but I will not willingly make a target out of myself," said Artemis Sr. "You must realize, Severus, that even though I do not wish to see Voldemort win, I can still keep myself alive and prosperous under any sort of rule. Perhaps I am a coward – but I only look to keep myself and the people I care about safe."

Professor Snape nodded. "That is understandable."

"Regarding the Order of the Phoenix, am I allowed to come? Being underage, I won't be as targeted, and since I am trained in Occlumency, it means that I will be a safer way of carrying information than Owls or the Floo network," Artemis suggested.

"I don't see why not," his father shrugged.

"…Fine," Angeline Fowl relented. "Will there be any other underage wizards there?"

Professor Snape sneered. "The Potter brat, obviously, and his two friends. Perhaps the rest of the Weasley brood. They are all I can think of. Sadly, the private meetings are restricted to members who are of age, only. Artemis and his…friends…shall be able to receive limited information."

"That sounds reasonable."

"Here. Something for you." Professor Snape held out a slip of parchment. On it was written the words,

_The Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix may be found at number twelve, Grimmauld Place, London._

"Read it and memorize. Done?" They all nodded. Professor Snape set fire to the parchment with his wand-tip. "The first meeting will be next week. Keep up your studies, Mr. Fowl," he said, nodding at Artemis. Then, Professor Snape stepped back into the fireplace, and vanished in another bust of emerald flame.

* * *

_12 Grimmauld Place_

"Oh, hello Artemis!" Hermione said, smiling.

"What's _he _doing here?" Ronald asked, surprised.

"Don't you ever listen? He's helping out with the Order!" Hermione reprimanded.

"What?" Ronald asked. "I was never told about this!"

"Professor Snape said just yesterday!"

"Well sorry, but I stopped listening to him a long time ago. I figured he was just insulting us anyway!"

"Sorry, Ron, but I'm taking Hermione's side this time," said Harry. "Snape actually said that at the dinner table."

"Lovely place, isn't it?" Artemis said loudly, trying to change the subject.

It couldn't have been a less inappropriate question. Number 12 Grimmauld Place was the Black family's house, and unlike the Fowls, they apparently had had no qualms against showing off their affiliation with the Dark Arts. Really, the first thing he saw when he walked into the house were plaques with the heads of deceased house-elves nailed to them, as well as an umbrella stand made from a severed troll's leg. According to Harry, who had been allowed to move in with his godfather for the time being, it was still better than the Dursleys, which made Artemis wonder vaguely just how much his relatives hated him.

"We've had a right lovely time cleaning it out," Ronald mumbled. "Dark objects everywhere – the Ministry should have gone on a raid of this place a long time ago. We got rid of most of it, though, so you're lucky. Just stay out of Kreacher's way, and you should be all right."

"Kreacher?"

"The house-elf who works here," Ronald replied. "Nutter. Never met one like him."

"He's not a nutter – " Hermione began.

"His life's ambition is to have his head cut off and stuck on a plaque just like his mother," Ronald said. "Is that normal for you, Hermione?" They began to argue again, and were just heading down to dinner when a loud crash and unpleasant, blood-curdling screeches vibrated throughout the entire house. It was Walburga Black – and after hearing her rant once, Artemis realized why the entire family was so dysfunctional.

"We've been trying to get her down for a month but she probably put a Permanent Sticking Charm on the back of the canvas," Sirius said apologetically.

"She's only stuck to the wall," Artemis pointed out. "Why can't you just remove that bit of the wall?"

Sirius and the other adults paused. "You know…that's not such a bad idea."

Dinner came along and everyone (except for Professor Snape) gathered in the kitchen. It started out completely entertaining, and then things went downhill when Harry demanded to know what was going on – Sirius Black had been perfectly fine about it, but Mrs. Weasley felt that he was too young…overall, it was Dumbledore's fault. In the end, however, Artemis found some accomplices to his plans for mischief – specifically, eavesdropping. Unfortunately there had been an Imperturbable Charm on the door, but Artemis taught the Weasley twins how to cut a tiny box in the ward, just large enough to slip the Extendable Ear through, but small enough to combat any suspicion.

* * *

The next day, Artemis decided to return to "help out" with the continued cleaning of the house. Really, it was to see what other nasty stuff the Blacks kept locked up. After a rather unpleasant encounter with the house-elf, Kreacher, who had called them "scum" and "blood-traitors" (obviously, he had inherited the nasty language from his owners), Sirius Black began to tell everyone the story of his family tree.

"I got blasted off," Sirius said, pointing to a brown singe on the tapestry, "for running away when I turned sixteen. I went and lived at your father's house, Harry…I'd had enough of all the pureblood mania…then, I got a place of my own, using a large amount of gold that my uncle Alphard left me, which is probably why my dear old mother blasted him off, too…and there's my favorite cousin, Andromeda. Narcissa and Bellatrix are still on there, of course, because they made respectable pureblood marriages, but Andromeda married Ted Tonks, who was Muggle-born. She's Tonks' mother."

The Lestranges…despite his mother's normally caring nature, in comparison to Bellatrix's violently insane disposition, Artemis wondered whether she or her sister-in-law was more dangerous.

"And there's my idiot little brother, who was soft enough to believe him," Sirius said, pointing to a portrait and not a burn for once. "He was younger than me, and a much better son, as I was constantly reminded. Joined up with the Death Eaters as soon as he came of age…our parents were so proud; they thought Voldemort had the right idea about the purification of the wizards and all of that muck. He got killed a year later – after he saw what Voldemort would do for power he got cold feet and backed out, and Voldemort probably sent someone after him to kill him. You can't just hand in a resignation letter to Voldemort – that Dark Mark means a lifetime of devotion and service or death. Blood in, blood out."

After lunch, they went through more cleaning, getting rid of various Dark artifacts which were all very reluctant to leave their home. Sirius Black had gotten a bad bite from a silver snuffbox full of Wartcap Powder, Harry nearly had his skin punctured by a spidery, tweezer-like instrument, and an enchanted music box had nearly put them all to sleep until Ginny Weasley slammed the lid shut. There were also various ancient seals, and an Order of Merlin, First Class given to Sirius' grandfather for "services to the Ministry" (which meant a "generous donation".)

One of the last objects to go was a heavy golden locket which no one could open. Artemis had nearly thrown it out, when he realized that even if the locket had been made of gold, it wouldn't have been so heavy _or _depressing. Artemis was a Fowl; he knew how to judge gold by weight – and when something was denser than even gold there was a problem (unless it was clearly labeled as platinum, osmium, iridium, or one of those synthetic radioactive elements, which it wasn't). Not to mention, it was buzzing oddly with a sort of sinister energy that could not be described in mere words. For some reason, it seemed to call out to him…whisper to him…

With a start, Artemis realized that the locket felt familiar.

It felt like the diary.

Golden locket. Inlaid with emeralds, in the shape of an _S_. This was Salazar Slytherin's locket.

And Voldemort had made it into a Horcrux.

* * *

More than one.

_More than one._

Artemis couldn't believe it. Voldemort had managed to create not one Horcrux, but multiple ones.

More than one Horcrux, and he was still capable of conscious thought.

Though the Horcrux was a relatively new concept to Artemis, the human consciousness was not. To think that anyone could just willingly break it up…

If he had doubted Voldemort's power (and stupidity) before, he sure didn't now.

More than one.

Tom Marvolo Riddle was many things, but an weakling was not one of them. In Blaise's words, completely batshit insane, yes, but there was a reason why he was one of the most brilliant minds the world had ever seen, and certainly the most amazing wizard of his generation.

How was that even possible?

It was quite a waste of talent, really, that he had put his mind to conquering the world. Lording over mankind for all of eternity was not a fate Artemis would have wanted for himself. Dealing with people on a daily basis was already bad enough – the whining, complacent idiocy of _commoners_…Artemis was not one for wasting his time dealing with mere mortals, and he was certain that Tom Marvolo Riddle would have felt the same way.

And he was sixteen when he started.

Voldemort had surrounded himself with obsequious flatterers and cronies, if only to prove to himself his greater power, if only to compensate for a certain lack. There was an obvious psychological abnormality in this sense. At some point in his life, Voldemort had known weakness – perhaps that insecurity still existed – and his reign of terror had been, quite simply, a way to make up for it. In its barest form, Voldemort's actions were exceptionally childlike and petulant, and it was only the massive scale of his operations that had created so much terror in the first place.

Was he sixteen? Was it possible to control the age of one's soul when one split it? No, that couldn't have been possible. But what if the diary hadn't even been the first? What if it had been…what if he had started much earlier?

Artemis wondered if, under different circumstances, he could have ended up the same way. Anyone in a logical position would realize that world domination was, quite frankly, a stupid goal. Even if one was successful, when one accomplished the subjugation of the so-called lesser beings, one would have to be _responsible _for them. Artemis, on the other hand, was only ever responsible for himself. And yet…who was to say he was not cruel, cold, and uncaring? If anyone could be capable of pure, callous disregard for a fellow life, it would be him. If it had been beneficial to Artemis to lead a genocidal war, he would have done so; he definitely had the power and resources to succeed. As it was, though, mindless killing was just that – _mindless_. And so Artemis did not kill, he realized, not because he cared about human lives, but because killing did not help him. If he did not have logic holding him back, if he had been raised in madness, imprinted on those ideals that Voldemort had made his own credo…he could have very well turned into a monster far more terrifying than Voldemort could have ever dreamed of.

Artemis found his apathy to be far more frightening than the thought of murder itself. Thinking back to his Boggart, that red-eyed doppelganger, Artemis realized that they really were quite close indeed. He had already fulfilled all of the requirements for being a complete and utter sociopath; his knowledge of emotions was completely scientific, after all – grounded in self-penned psychology textbooks. He understood how to connect the actions of people to mere _definitions _of emotions, but actually _feeling _in appropriate situations was much more difficult. The only thing that separated him from his other self was the presence of logic.

And, all things considered, Artemis decided that the loss of his mind was a fate worse than death.

More than one! One was bad enough. And there was a second one lying in front of him.

Artemis felt a deep pit sinking in his stomach. Voldemort had split his soul when he was sixteen. Here was another example of a Horcrux. Who knew exactly how many he had made? And who knew what they were, or where they had hidden them? Evidently, he must have had more. The diary had once been in the possession of Lucius Malfoy, and Sirius had mentioned that his younger brother used to be a Death Eater…perhaps he gave them to his servants to protect? But that sounded very unlike Voldemort, to trust other people with his own immortality, and anyway, hadn't Regulus died young after trying to flee the gang? He couldn't have been in there long enough to gain Voldemort's trust, and even if he had, the locket shouldn't have remained in his care. Voldemort would have gone to retrieve it after Regulus had defected.

The only person who knew was Voldemort himself, and Artemis refused to go after the man anytime soon. Anyway, he didn't even know where Voldemort was currently hiding.

But…

Perhaps the pieces could give him some help.

If he could somehow get the Voldemort's dismembered, cast-off pieces of soul to reveal this information to him – through force? Persuasion? He wasn't sure which. But at this point, it was the best he could think of.

Artemis stared down at the locket again. With a few tests, using the Opal's notes, he could probably determine how old Voldemort was when he made this particular piece, and maybe gauge the associated level of insanity and danger.

If only he still had the diary…he knew, at least, how that one worked. The locket most likely required a special spell, maybe Parseltongue, to open, and no doubt the soul piece would be able to form a physical manifestation as soon as it laid eyes on him. On the other hand, the diary could respond to English, and it seemed, well…blind. Artemis still remembered how Tom Riddle had mistaken him for Harry Potter – the diary had recognized his magic, or maybe his handwriting…but other than that he was pretty much at the mercy of whatever unlucky informant he happened to snag.

Artemis cursed his naïve twelve-year-old self now for having antagonized Riddle so early in the game. He could have found out so much more about Riddle…a teenage Voldemort, even if he had already created a Horcrux, was much easier to manipulate than an already grown one. If only he could go back in time to retrieve the diary before it was destroyed!

Back in time…

Back in time.

Artemis threw open the doors to his lab, and, as he contemplated his new, brilliant plan, wondered if he truly was insane.

* * *

_Hogwarts – Year 2_

Artemis made sure that he was completely hidden, both physically and magically. He was sure that it was impossible to completely hide from Hogwarts as the establishment was just so dense in magic, but he figured that as long as he did not intend to cause direct harm to the building or the inhabitants, the castle would remain benevolent. All he had to do was to make sure that no one saw him or detected his presence. An exact replica of Tom Riddle's diary (disregarding magic) was hidden underneath his cloak.

Which, all things considered, was easier done than said. It was past curfew, and the basilisk attacks had not ended yet – the hallways were completely abandoned, and even the most resolute of rulebreakers were hiding in the safety of the dormitories.

Except, of course, for everyone currently _in _the Chamber of Secrets.

Quickly, Artemis made his way to the bathroom in the second floor, practically smothered in every concealing spell possible. While his physical ability had not improved, Artemis fared slightly better than his twelve-year-old self, since his legs were longer and could work more efficiently at this point in…he could not exactly say time, but…

Artemis wrinkled his nose in disgust as he stared down the grime-covered passage to the Chamber. He had forgotten how dirty it had been. Gingerly, he cast a Levitation spell and lowered himself to the bottom, feet-first, making sure he did not touch any of the pipes this time. Honestly, he never understood the big deal Wizards placed in flying, or why the textbooks claimed that it was impossible to fly unassisted, or why the _Daily Prophet _from the First Wizarding War screamed black magic the first time Voldemort was seen floating around without a broom. The only difference between levitating a wizard and anything else was the fact that one had to account for the wizard's own magic reacting against the spell. A slight adjustment in the path of magic to fit with one's own, and then flying without a broom was just about the easiest thing in the world. It seemed unreal to him, that it apparently took until Voldemort's time for wizards to learn how to self-levitate, after generations and generations of students learning _Wingardium Leviosa _as their very first spell.

Hard ground. Artemis' feet lightly touched the cold stone, and he soundlessly made his way down the dark, lime-encrusted corridors. He could hear loud noises coming from the end, and sensed magic being thrown about; clearly, the six-on-one duel was already under way. Artemis crept closer, and took a deep breath. Opening the door might attract unwanted attention.

Artemis slipped on his magical sunglasses, and made quick work of the wards dividing the basilisk's chamber from the main corridor. He was lucky; the door was old and mostly wooden, so there were plenty of air gaps. That made passing through easier than trying to swim through a denser, solid stone wall. Artemis clutched his wand tightly, nonverbally performed the incantation, and held his breath as he took a step forward.

His foot passed through the wood. Success. Artemis quickly followed suit with the rest of his body.

Looking back at the scene before him, Artemis called upon his extremely convenient eidetic memory. Here he was, dueling Tom Riddle, who was slowly but surely showing his inner madness in his anger. There was the Basilisk, lunging around wildly. Artemis watched himself blindfold the serpent…

And then the sword went through the basilisk's brain…

And the diary was soaring through the air…

_NOW!_

Artemis grabbed the fake diary, and performed an instantaneous switching spell just as the the basilisk was about to sink its fangs into the real diary. Instead, the basilisk's jaws closed around Artemis' fake book, which had been programmed to spurt the same tarry substance that a real Horcrux would have.

Artemis just found it extremely lucky that Harry Potter had decided to throw the diary into the basilisk's mouth, instead of waiting for the basilisk to die, ripping out one of its fangs, and physically stabbing it himself. Because then, gaining possession of the book would have been much more difficult. It would have probably required extremely careful obliviation, assuming that Harry would have been too excited to notice any difference between the fake diary and the clearly malevolent real one before stabbing it.

His work done, Artemis spun the Time-Turner once again, taking the diary with him.

And Tom Marvolo Riddle followed, screaming as he was ripped out of this slice of the world.

* * *

_Department of Mysteries_

For the second time in the same week, the British Ministry of Magic displayed its glaring incompetence in security.

This time, a Prophecy was stolen.

(White knight to f3.)

* * *

**A/N: THAT'S RIGHT! I WAS PLANNING THAT SINCE THEN!**

**I actually debated on having Artemis take home the diary second year, but I couldn't fit it in because a) at that point in time, I felt he was still too young to know the significance of Horcruxes just yet, b) logically, they knew the diary was evil and would rather destroy it then experiment, and c) I still needed a major villain to finish the end of the year.**

**Plus it's fun, watching Artemis getting outsmarted for once – even if it's by his older self.**


	4. Interlude from the Other Side

**Sorry for the delay. School actually started two weeks ago for me, and every moment of free time was spent on college apps. Priorities, you know.**

**"You can be anything you want - doctor, lawyer, or engineer."**

* * *

_An undisclosed location_

"My lord…please!"

"You are late, Igor Karkaroff," Voldemort whispered. "You know I do not tolerate tardiness."

"My lord, I was afraid – "

Voldemort held up one bony hand to stop him. "Do not take me for an ignorant fool, Karkaroff. Yes, I know all about your little escapades…selling out your own comrades to escape prison, hmmm? And now you are afraid of repercussion."

"Of them, yes, but my loyalty is stronger! Please, my Lord, I did not come when the others did because I knew that they would try to kill me for revenge, and I knew I would be of no use to you dead! My lord, give me a second chance; I did what any rational human would have done – "

"I do not wish to hear your pathetic excuses," Voldemort hissed.

Karkaroff shivered and backed away. "Of course not, my Lord."

Voldemort eyed him contemplatively, watching in amusement as the man kneeling at his feet trembled in fear. For added effect, he slowly twirled his wand, and reveled in the waves of fear that rolled off his minion. "You have disappointed me greatly, Karkaroff. Now, humor me, and tell me why I should not murder you for your deceit right now." In reality, Voldemort was not about to kill the man, not when others had done similarly poorly in their test of faith for him. In fact, he actually commended the other somewhat, for his cunning – though, of course, he was still quite angry since that cunning did not work to his favor. Not like Lucius, who managed to retain his powerful position without jeopardizing the positions of anyone else.

"My lord, I can still be of use to you – I am the headmaster of Durmstrang; I can recruit – "

"Mere children, Igor?" Voldemort said sarcastically. "I applaud your desperation." Karkaroff flinched. It served him right, for being so cowardly. Lord Voldemort normally did not approve of Gryffindors, but there were certain standards that had to be passed, considering that they would eventually have to go into combat, after all. Certain standards that the man before him did not meet. It would not hurt, to torture him a little more.

"I – I – "

"What else have you got for me, Karkaroff? Surely you do not expect me to forgive you just for that?" he hissed.

"I have important news, my Lord! I promise you, you will want to hear this!"

"Would you like to wager your life, Igor? If it turns out that it was something I know already, then rest assured, you shall die. Are you willing to take the chances, or will this be a repeat of your trial? I heard that you had to exhaust several names before you finally found one that they hadn't known about yet," he smirked.

"My Lord – I have found another family – they can speak to snakes, too!"

At this, Voldemort sat up straight in his chair. Now that was something he had to admit was interesting. Not enough to forgive Karkaroff completely, but enough for him to stop playing games with the man's mind – for now. "Oh, really?" If Karkaroff was lying, simply making this up to escape punishment, he would get twice – no, three times – the intended Cruciatus.

"Yes – they live in the British Isles, too – "

"Stop stalling, Igor, and tell me who they are."

Igor swallowed, but visibly relaxed, probably comprehending the fact that he had escaped death by now. "They are the Fowls!"

Voldemort raised an eyebrow. "The Fowls? Not those Irish blood-traitors." Though, that last designation had only been out of habit. They were not like Dumbledore in that they championed rights for those of impure blood…they were a merchant family, through and through. Voldemort understood why they chose to extend their corporate claws into the Muggle world despite being wizards themselves. They were clever, and pureblood, yes, but not the ideal purebloods. They would never be as noble as the English families, like the Blacks or the Parkinsons, for example. There was only a limit to how far one could go if one channeled all of their efforts into merely making money.

Nonetheless, they were a dark family, and their bloodline was strong with powerful magic, though how much it had been diluted in two generations, Voldemort did not know. The last Fowl he had known was Coeus Fowl, who had been in his seventh year when he had been in his first. Completely unremarkable – even as an eleven-year-old child, he had noticed that the Fowls tended to be loners – antisocial and unassuming, preferring to think of their own comfort regardless of political regime, and only intervening when it was to their selfish benefit. They were famous in name only – no one ever really saw head or tail of any of the Fowls except in brief appearances at parties (all business-related).

They only came out of obscurity once every generation, when yet another member appeared at Hogwarts. And even then relatively most of their time was spent in the shadows – figuratively and literally; he wouldn't be surprised if they were part vampire somewhere down the line, since their greedy attitudes certainly seemed to point that way. The Fowls, generally, were intelligent enough; as far as he was concerned they all just breezed their way through their education, getting decent enough grades that they never used anyway, and, once the seven years were up, almost immediately hightailed their way back to their little fortress-manor in Ireland, where they remained hidden behind their money for another two and a half decades until the cycle repeated itself.

Honestly, they could have dropped out after first year, or better yet, even just _not _had any magic, and they would have been perfectly fine. All they ever did when they went to Hogwarts was learn not to let their magic explode out of control and kill people, anyway. That and a little bit of self-defense in case they ever came across a disgruntled Knockturn Alley businessman (during his time tracking down magical artifacts while employed under Borgin and Burkes he had often eavesdropped on private conversations – several of which involved plans to curse the opportunistic Fowl family). It wasn't as if their family-owned, self-propelled business dealings even required magical credentials anyway.

Coeus Fowl had been that way, following the tradition almost verbatim, and so had his son, Artemis, who had cleverly wormed out of joining the Death Eaters during his first rise to power. When pressured, he had made a few vague statements and promises, and once their backs had turned on him, he had fled back across the Irish Sea and disappeared behind a self-contained Fidelius Charm. Clever man, that one. Lord Voldemort never underestimated power or intelligence. Though he had been angry at the time, that his recruiting agents had allowed themselves to be duped so easily, he had been sufficiently impressed with Artemis Fowl's unorthodox (but infinitely more effective than Prince's – oh, that poor, poor, backwards, outdated old man; he would have been a valuable asset had he not been so foolishly _proud _– violently resistant) methods.

Other than that, though – nothing much of use in terms of magical power.

To think that these people were carried a trait unique to his ancestor, Slytherin himself. They couldn't possibly be related, could they? Though he had once shared a few physical traits with the Fowls – tall, slim body, dark hair, dark eyes –

_Blue eyes, but dark like the color of the sea and not the sky…not natural, they had said…not natural, and they had avoided him, the foolish Muggles…like they had somehow foreseen this monster that he would have one day become…_Now where had that stray thought come from?

– they had also been common among many aristocratic families…and besides, those disgusting features had come from his Muggle father anyway. Good riddance, that he had done away with them.

Karkaroff nodded vigorously. "The very same. They are direct descendants of Herpo the Foul himself."

Voldemort frowned. "Then why have we never heard of them?"

Karkaroff swallowed. "They have kept their ability a secret for centuries, my Lord – to stay out of the Light regime's persecution, and also, as security measures for their properties and bank accounts. A truly mundane way to use their power – you have always done far greater, my Lord; Slytherin's line was definitely more powerful and successful than that Greek's – "

"Igor, please refrain from your obsequious flattery."

Another gulp. "Of course."

"Now, what proof do you have of this?"

"I – I managed to kidnap one of them – Artemis Fowl, the first – "

"And where is he now?"

"He…he escaped."

Voldemort let out a high, shrill laugh. "Oh, Igor! Your incompetence never fails to amuse me!"

"It was not my fault, my Lord!" Karkaroff stuttered in anger. "I would have succeeded in – well – his son! His blasted son interrupted me!"

_Succeeded in what? _Voldemort thought to himself. Probably another harebrained, power-climbing scheme. He had no wish to hear about the man's foolish actions. Instead, he settled for another insult. "You were defeated by _his _son? And, tell me, how old was that boy? Artemis Fowl was around the same age as the rest of you, was he not? His son should barely be in Hogwarts by now. Imagine that, Karkaroff. A grown man like you, foiled by a little boy. How far you have fallen."

"The _boy _is not a normal boy!" Karkaroff growled. "My Lord, he is important, and extremely powerful – more powerful than anyone I've seen – " meeting Voldemort's murderous eyes, Karkaroff hastily added, " – except you, my Lord!"

"Are you simply making more excuses for your uselessness, Karkaroff?" Voldemort asked, tired of the conversation already.

"No, my Lord! He was capable of wandless magic! My underlings reported that he had cast a wandless fire spell!"

Well. That was news, at least. He would refrain from torturing the imbecile for a little while longer. "Continue."

"He escaped the Body-Bind wandlessly, too. Not the silly Petrifying spell – the Lestranges' Binding Curse – "

At this, Voldemort's eyes widened. If what Karkaroff said was true, then that boy could very well be a threat. He hadn't learned wandless magic until his later years at Hogwarts, and while he knew that he had enough power to break free of the Lestranges' Binding Curse, he had never done so because no one had ever managed to come close enough to successfully cast it on him. "How old was this boy?"

"He is the same age as Malfoy's and Nott's sons."

That meant that the boy was only fourteen now. He must have been even younger than that. In a wave of impatience, Lord Voldemort decided to Legilimize Karkaroff – as painfully as possible. What he saw astounded him. In the name of magic – the boy was only _eleven _– not even twelve yet – when he had successfully broken through Karkaroff's defenses. And – what were those things with him? Karkaroff's memory had been clouded; clearly, someone had modified it.

Tapping his fingers together, he realized that this boy was a threat to him. He had talent, but too much of it. And being a Fowl, he was unlikely to hold out his left arm and follow orders. In a best-case scenario, the boy would probably just end up being a businessman, like his predecessors. Still, Voldemort doubted that someone of such great power would be willing to be content with mere money-making. He would strive to push his magical power to its very limit – just like he.

And the world only had room for one Dark Lord.

The others must be eliminated.

With one last slash of his wand, he sent a burning curse at Karkaroff. Yelping, the pathetic man jumped up and fled the room.

Voldemort leaned back on his chair. Maybe he could finally have a little peace at last.

Alas, this was not to be, for soon he was interrupted with a tittering sound behind him. So that infuriating pixie had finally returned. On one hand, he was glad that she had finished her assigned task, but on the other hand, he really did not want to deal with her right now.

* * *

"Well?" Snake-face growled. "Where is it?"

Opal crossed her arms and rolled her eyes, dodging one of the curses that the man aimed at her. She knew that he would not kill her – at least, not yet. She was prepared for that time, even now; like him, she had pushed the bounds of magic to its limits. Unbeknownst to either the People or these Wizards, she had managed to combine the two powers, and the result was something more stunning and dangerous than anything she – or anyone – could have possibly seen before. She could do what both fairies and humans could do – without having to recharge her magic with the Ritual at all. This was the power to destroy utterly, and she lived for the day when she could finally use it against the monster sitting across from her.

And against the two stupid Mud Boys that ruined her plan the first time. She did not want to just _kill _them, no – she wanted to see them _suffer _first. In a poetically entertaining way. They deserved both physical and mental pain.

Ooh! What better way to kill his pride than to broadcast his humiliating demise on live television? When she took over the world, she could film them dying, and replay the video whenever she felt bored. Dying by…trolls! Yes, that was it! Trolls! An amusement park full of them! She grinned madly.

"Where is it?" Snake-face repeated.

Oh. Right. She was still stuck negotiating with this monster for now.

"Right here," she said, holding it up but refusing to hand it over. To his credit, the Mud Man sitting across from her did not make a fool out of himself by reaching out like some foolish baboon.

"I believed we agreed that after I gave you permission to enter and leave any human dwelling as you pleased, you would take this prophecy to me," he whispered softly.

Opal took a nice, long look at the man sitting across from her, wondering if it was worth it to continue provoking him. It would not be the smartest thing to do, but it certainly was the most satisfying. For all their similarities, she would come out superior. She understood enough about him to do so. She did not understand everything about him, of course, and she did not want to. She could not believe that a Mud Man – such an arrogant one at that, too – would want to disfigure himself, to literally cut off his nose to spite his face. Opal had heard Snake-face, Voldemort, Lord Thing, whatever he was called – rant about his "dirty Muggle father" when he thought no one was listening.

She honestly did not understand why he desired to look like a creature, just because he hated his father's face. Genetics was genetics, and honestly, for a Mud Man, he had been very lucky to get a face like that. She had seen it, just for a minute, the first time she had healed him and returned him to his own body – he had been aged at first, but then she decided to give him youth again, since she was smart enough to know that an old Mud Man would not be very useful to her. And, speaking from an entirely objective standpoint, he was extremely good looking. Not as beautiful as she was, but still. Had she been stupider she might have fallen for him, but as it was, she had no use for stupid men, no matter now nice their faces were.

The idiot had taken one look in the mirror and demanded that she give him the face of a monster instead.

Opal hated her own father, too – her sexist, oppressive, stupid old father, the same man she had bought out and locked in an insane asylum – but she still appreciated the nice things he had given her. It wasn't sensible to throw away something useful, simply because you hated the person who gave you the gift. A bribe, or a loan that would require payment to a rival later – that, she could understand. But a face, given by a father that was probably dead by now (how long were Mud Man lifespans again?) or if not, then completely powerless against him – it wouldn't hurt to accept it. Personally, she thought the beautifully evil were more fearsome than the ugly evil. Ugly people naturally seemed inferior, in the minds of humans and fairies alike. But beautiful people, like her? They could invoke both charisma and fear, as well as paranoia in their underlings – deception and distrust was the best way to hurt people, after all.

She decided to push him. Just a little more. Test his limits, and push him to the breaking point. Just to see where his supposedly infamous temper lay, and just exactly what effect losing his mind would have on his power. "It is blocked against wizards," she crooned, steepling her fingers, "but the People have magic that one cannot imagine. It is the ancient art of pure magic. A silly Mud Man like you would not understand. One must be born with it."

He narrowed his red eyes at her. She could tell that he absolutely detested her "superior" personality…how he wished that they could get over with their invasion already so he could just kill her, and obliterate the rest of her unworthy race as well. Elves…pixies…they were all the same thing, really. The anger came off him in waves. His mind was shielded – the fairy _Mesmer _would not be very effective against him, but combined with wizard magic, and she could read any emotion. Currently, his feelings carried something along the lines of: _Their blood was impure. Like the mortals. They were only special because they had a different brand of magic that allowed them to live longer and heal immediately, which would be quite useful, but unnecessary to someone like him. It was quite convenient, then, that she was helping him expedite the process that would eventually be her end._

It was brilliant. Brilliant! He thought _she _was the inferior one! How she would love to prove him wrong!

"Does it look like I care?" he sneered, waving his fingers at her dismissively. "Now give it to me."

Smirking, she extended the glowing glass orb out towards him. This time, Snake-Face did hold out his hand, and Opal had a great deal of fun in snatching it away again. For good measure, she waved her little finger at him infuriatingly. He was extremely angry now, she could tell. _So that was how it was, then! The impudent brat… _

Impudent brat! Now Opal really wanted to laugh. She was centuries older than he was, and he was calling _her _the impudent brat? Foolish, foolish Mud Man!

"I've got it…Now what will you give me for it?" she asked, unable to help herself..

His blood boiling, Lord Voldemort stood, and towered over her small frame. "It is not a question of what I give you," he hissed, "but rather, what I do _not _give you." He drew his wand and sent a burning curse at her. Opal was unable to jerk her arm away in time – she shrieked in surprise and dropped the Prophecy, and he caught the glassy ball before it shattered upon the ground. A triumphant grin found its way onto his face.

"Thank you," he said. "You have been of utmost help in my operation – rest assured that I shall help you do the same – "

"You better," she said angrily, blue sparks dancing along her wrist. Her dark eyes flashed dangerously. "You may have more versatile magic…but we both know how dangerous I am. And if you betray me, _I will destroy you and everything you have to live for. I will turn your enemies to you and your servants against you. And it is not impossible, for someone like me…I could control your people more strongly than a silly Imperius Curse…possess them with my powers…reveal your darkest fears and secrets."_

It looked like Voldemort had won this round, but on the inside, Opal was relishing in her own victory. She had provoked Lord Voldemort, snake-face extraordinaire, and escaped with nothing more than a stinging hex. Voldemort definitely still needed her, and not only that, but he had proven himself to be more vulnerable to her powers than he initially realized.

"You may leave now," he said coldly, his red eyes glaring at her. And so she did.

But Opal Koboi stopped as soon as the door closed behind her. Using her magic to get past all of his worthless enchantments, she pressed one large, pointed ear against the door. She had, after all, helped Snake-Face Voldemort get that little glass ball that was supposedly so important to him. She deserved to listen, too. And if she didn't…well, they might be allies now, but they definitely would be enemies later. One more thing to hold over him.

_THE ONE WITH THE POWER TO VANQUISH THE DARK LORD APPROACHES…CREATED BY HE WHO SHALL DEFY HIM, HE WHO IS BORN IN THE SEVENTH MONTH…AND THE DARK LORD WILL CONSIDER HIM HIS EQUAL, BUT HE WILL HAVE POWER THE DARK LORD KNOWS NOT…ONLY ONE SHALL DIE AT THE HAND OF THE OTHER, AND YET BOTH WILL DIE AT THE HANDS OF EACH OTHER, FOR HE MUST CHOOSE…AND THE ONE…WITH THE POWER…TO VANQUISH THE DARK LORD…WILL BE CREATED…AND THEN THERE WILL BE SEVEN._

(White pawn to b3.)

* * *

_Fowl Laboratories_

Panting in exhilaration, Artemis landed embarrassingly ungracefully on the floor of his laboratory. He stared down at the diary in his hands. He could feel the waves of fury radiating from it – literally. Tom Riddle, cut off from Ginny Weasley through time and distance, could no longer drain her power, but he had managed to at least take some of it along with him, and the diary was barely enough to hold him in.

Was it Tom Riddle? Teenage Voldemort?

Artemis decided to stick to Tom Riddle for now. The locket could be Teenage Voldemort. He was not very keen on labeling them One and Two just yet, because he still did not know how many had come before them or in between.

Had Tom Riddle had finished draining Ginny Weasley, he could have become an independent, solid being, and then destroying the diary would have done them no good. As it was, however, there was still that minute thread – weakened as he sapped Ginny Weasley of her strength, but there nonetheless – anchoring Riddle to the diary. Wherever the diary went, Tom Riddle had to follow, and thus, when Artemis had taken the diary back to the present, Tom Riddle had also been ripped out of time.

Hence the reason why he seemed to disappear when they had "killed" the diary.

Now, what to do with it?

He needed a way to draw Riddle out. If Riddle was in the diary, he could still hide by refusing to write anything back (well, perhaps Artemis could threaten him with destruction, but without a face there would be no way to determine whether or not he was being truthful). With a physical body, however, Artemis could easily keep him bound, knowing many spells that would keep a human's muscles paralyzed and magic sealed.

Artemis certainly could not write in it himself. Riddle would have recognized him again, and refused to say anything. No, he needed a willing victim to make Riddle believe that he won, allow Riddle to sap their strength, and then, when he had completely cut off all ties from the diary and physically manifested himself, capture him.

Unfortunately, it was obvious that an actual person would not suffice. He could very well get into a great deal of trouble for willingly submitting another human being to psychological torture and possession by the cast-off soul piece of a future (or past?) sociopath.

…was it possible to create a fake one, then? One that could provide Tom Riddle with what he needed, a modified body with no personality? Well, Artemis supposed he would have to create at least some semblance of a personality, or else it would seem suspicious. No matter. Artemis had plenty of time. He could leave the diary, in that interlude, to stew in nervousness and anticipation, before finally a state of rest. That would be the best time to have another "person" accidentally stumble upon this curious, charming little book that could understand your feelings and write back.

Breathing carefully, Artemis slipped on a pair of gloves, and physically carried the diary over to another storage room, making sure that Tom Riddle's diary would not be able to sense any contact with another life or magical being whatsoever. This Horcrux had already been activated; certainly its strength, combined with some of Ginny's lost magic, would be monumentally more dangerous than the locket.

No, better to let it calm down first. Meanwhile, Artemis could get to work on analyzing the locket, which he judged to be a safer test subject.

* * *

**A/N: From last chapter, I forgot to mention - Artemis' grandfather's name was never revealed in canon, so I named him Coeus after a Titan from Greek mythology. He was the god of intellect and the inquisitive mind. **

**I initially chose the name of Artemis' unnamed grandfather for this reason. Funny story: when I read further, I learned that he was also the father of Leto, who was, of course the mother of the twins Artemis and Apollo. So, conveniently, both Coeuses were grandfathers of Artemis. Neat, huh? It was like it was meant to be.**


	5. Springing the Trap

_From the notebooks of I. Emmawor Locke_

**8. Horcruxes**

WARNING: THIS PAPER IS FOR RESEARCH PURPOSES ONLY. IT IS NEVER TO BE PUBLISHED.

DISCLAIMER: THE AUTHOR HAS NEVER MURDERED OR MADE A HORCRUX OF HIS OWN. ALL TEST SUBJECTS ARE CREDITED TO TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE.

The splitting of the consciousness can create immortality, but only as long as the current universe exists. By concealing the soul piece inside a physical object, the rest of the being can be tethered to the three-dimensional realm. Should the third dimension cease to exist, as all things do with the passing of the fourth dimension (time), the fifth dimension (the universe), and multiple dimensions after that, so will that person's immortality. In the end, nothing can last forever. The amount of power each successive dimensional level holds over the previous one is exponential, and a shift in the fourth or fifth dimension would easily be enough to unseat any magic performed in the third dimension.

Making a Horcrux, it seems, also results in many unpleasant side effects – an extreme loss of sanity, for one. Since magical energy is linked to the living body, power is not affected – at least, not magic in the conventional sense. But some of the most powerful forms of magic require a complete soul to perform properly, and a complete mind to control it. Patronuses and Animagi transformations are only the most basic of these magics. In theory, interdimensional travel also requires a full consciousness to be successful – if the soul is broken, the force of the interdimensional field will literally blast the consciousness to pieces.

As for the individual horcruxes themselves, there are a few rules that can generally be followed (although I only had one test subject that was crazy – and powerful – enough to create more than one and survive, so I cannot call these proven just yet):

1. Each time a Horcrux is created, the soul is split in half. Thus the first piece, the 1/2 piece, is the largest. The next is a 1/4 piece, and then a 1/8 piece, and then a 1/16 piece, and so on. There is probably a way to control the size of the pieces, but I am not willing to try.

2. The smaller the soul pieces, the weaker they are.

3. 1/2 pieces are generally able to create a solid body for themselves, provided they have a source to steal energy from. Depending on the wizard, a 1/4 piece might have this ability as well, although it would obviously take a lot more time.

4. Eventually there is a point where the soul pieces can no longer exist independently outside of another vessel, even if they retain their ability to sap another living being's strength. They must remain parasites.

5. Beyond that point a soul piece might be unable to even possess another human being (since their segment would be too small to compete with the soul of a host), though all soul pieces will possess some level of influence here and there.

6. Since possession requires competition with the original soul within the body, only wizards with the greatest power might be able to survive making a Horcrux and still be capable of conscious thought. Of course, to do so in the first place demonstrates an extreme lack of intelligence to begin with. That is why, according to my test subject, "children, animals, and generally stupid people are more preferable victims than grown adults."

7. Murder does not necessarily split the soul, as common belief states. Otherwise, everyone would be walking around with damaged souls – just think about all the insects the average human squashes in one day, or all the animals that are butchered for an evening meal. Likewise, a soul can be split with things other than murder. Because of Newton's third law, the action-reaction law, any mental-based action that is strong enough has the potential to shatter the consciousness. But the more important factor is determination – only someone who wishes to split the soul can properly control their power so that the residue rebounds properly. The Killing Curse is simply the most efficient spell for splitting the soul because it is the most precise, and makes a nice clean cut. However, extremely destructive spells like Fiendfyre or the Cruciatus Curse can also split the soul – though in a more jagged and rough manner – should anyone have the determination to do so that way. Theoretically, even something like the Patronus Charm can split a soul, though generally, those who are capable of performing a Patronus in the first place are against the very idea of splitting souls. Finally, irreversible actions committed using an extremely powerful medium, like all of those lovely trinkets found in the Department of Mysteries, can also produce enough rebound energy. Naturally, the first irreversible action one would think of is death, though permanent paralysis might work too. Keep in mind, this is all theoretical, and simply tested using Sim-Bodies™. Real humans may find discrepancies with my work. Results may vary. We hold no responsibility for your actions or dissatisfaction.

8. So far, it is thought that only remorse can put soul pieces back together. Since split souls have a naturally diminished emotional capability it is quite obvious why this might be difficult. However, I find that mental magic and certain soul-probing operations can do just as much good, as long as at least one piece is willing to make the merge (regardless of whether or not they actually feel remorse for the actions leading up to the split soul). In the case of someone who has split his soul multiple times, a simple majority combination should theoretically be enough to spark the needed sentiment, though I have a feeling that a 3/4 soul reunion would actually be needed for my exceptionally emotionally castrated subject.

Finally, methods of analyzing a Horcrux using the same particle/energy bombardment technique in whole soul analysis yields just as helpful results. This apparatus functions in the same way as RADAR beams (reflection) or Rutherford's gold foil experiment (in penetration and reflection), or ultrasound (though I am loath to compare soul fragments to fetuses, even if they are equally ugly). By probing a vessel, one can view an imprint, or a shadow of a soul; increased sophistication of the aforementioned hardware can increase resolution capabilities so that rather than a monochrome two-dimensional image, detector screens might display three-dimensional images. So far, this has been highly successful, though also rather time-consuming and costly: in order to create a three-dimensional image, one must surround the vessel on all sides, to create many two-dimensional images only; one must then use a computer program to compile all of the individual two-dimensional images together and assign colors to certain values before a three-dimensional image can be generated.

That being said, analysis of the soul imprints can help one deduce:

1. The age of the Horcrux. The soul piece slowly forms a bond with its vessel. By analyzing the strength of these bonds, one can estimate how long the soul has been trapped within the vessel.

2. The age of the user at the time he split his soul. Since soul pieces stop aging once they are detached from a body, it only takes intrinsic probing of the soul piece itself to yield this information.

3. The relative size of the soul piece. High-energy radiation bombardment passing directly through the vessel can reveal an imprint of said piece. The soul has a rather indistinct shape, but to simplify things, I shall use the circle as an analogy. When the soul is split, one can visualize a cake being cut in half. If a piece resembles a semicircle, one can deduce that it is the first piece. A soul piece shaped like a wedge with a 90-degree angle would be the second split. One with a 45-degree angle would be the third split, and so on. This imprint-angle-measurement system can help determine how many Horcruxes have been made (so far), if any are missing, and in what order they were made.

* * *

Artemis leaned back, pleased with his own research. So far, he had determined that the diary was, indeed, Voldemort's first Horcrux, and that the locket of Salazar Slytherin (Artemis himself, with his practiced eyes, had determined that it was, indeed, the authentic relic) had been his fifth. Voldemort had made five Horcruxes – at least. There might be more, though Artemis hoped not. Five was a nice, stable number. Six, not so much. Seven might work – might. All things considered, though, the numbers shouldn't have gone above one in the first place. Immortality was a nice thing to have, Artemis supposed, but he was not about to sacrifice his own sanity for it. No eternity at all was better than an eternity without his mind, his most precious possession of all.

Now, if only he could find the rest of them.

Artemis still believed that it would be easier to persuade the first horcrux, the diary, to give up its secrets, rather than the locket – this Tom Riddle would have been the youngest, the least jaded, the most impressionable of all of Voldemort's pieces. He would have also been considered the "weakest" piece, hence the reason why he was cast off first. The diary, being the first, would not have much information to give, of course – that Tom Riddle's memories ended the day he was split off the main body – but theoretically, if he could make the diary, the entire half piece, more malleable, and then convinced it to merge back with the locket-piece…the stronger half-piece would be considered the "main" soul in this case, and overpower the 1/32 piece. Then, he could have a younger Tom Riddle, desperate enough to trust him, controlling the memories of a Tom Riddle who already knew the identities of three other Horcruxes.

Obviously, a very unstable plan, built on many assumptions, but Artemis knew he could make it happen.

If it didn't, well…Fiendfyre was a particularly useful spell. Even if supposedly "Dark" and therefore completely illegal.

Now, how to work with the diary? Artemis glanced at the innocent-looking, leather-bound book lying in its sealed container, surrounded by an impenetrable magical force field, purposefully designed to keep the soul piece stuck inside of its vessel. As an extra precaution, he had added a psychological spell (the first of its kind that did not involve mind control or memory erasing) that would severely hamper the diary's perception of time. At this point, Tom Riddle's diary would not be able to tell if two years had passed or twenty. Yet another benefit – when he finally decided on the best approach to dealing with the thing, the diary would be more receptive to him. Several decades would make any soul piece hungry for an easy victim.

Artemis smiled grimly and set to work.

(Black knight to f6.)

* * *

It had taken up most of the summer – Artemis had been forced to forgo his time experimentation in favor of this more necessary task. The diary was currently still safely trapped inside of Artemis' magical force field, as was the locket; he was not going to make the same mistake as last time and let anyone get ahold of it, now that he understood what it was.

There had been many possible methods to approach the diary, but Artemis was unable to test any of them out – there was only one diary after all, and if he gave Riddle even an inkling of suspicion against him the Horcrux would probably never open up to anybody or anything ever again. Luckily, then, that he had two Horcruxes in his possession. The locket was weaker, but theoretically they should both react similarly, the only difference being scale.

Apparently, Artemis had determined, Horcruxes were unable to identify people physically, while still in their vessels – their only contact with the outside world was through detecting magical signatures of the things around them. That was why Riddle had mistaken Artemis for Harry Potter in his second year, when he had used the other's name while writing in the diary. Ginny Weasley had probably described Harry Potter to Tom Riddle before, but since Tom Riddle had been stuck in the diary he probably wouldn't have been able to understand what "green eyes, messy black hair, glasses, and lightning bolt scar" meant. Tom Riddle had simply attached his memory to the first magical being that called himself Harry Potter, and from there he had recognized Artemis-as-Harry through his magic, appearances all forgotten.

The locket had been no different.

Artemis had created a sim-body, based on Opal Koboi's clone design, specifically designed to be completely featureless, in both appearance and soul. That is, it was designed to be possessed. They were simply pure white, ambiguous, mannequin-like things, with all of the basic organs that defined a human and kept it alive, but nothing more. Artemis had tested the sim-body out himself, with a whole soul, by magically transferring his consciousness over to the body (which was also how he suspected Opal Koboi had escaped – he had informed the LEP, but without any further evidence for the Council no action could be taken). Artemis' real body had fallen asleep, since there was no consciousness to hold it up – as expected – and the sim-body had morphed itself to fit Artemis' magical signature and consciousness, even going so far as to change appearance to match his own. When Artemis left the body, he had been able to watch the raven hair disappear, the eyes change from blue back to a pupil-less, blind, milky white, and the entire body lose any semblance of facial or bodily structure whatsoever.

When Artemis had tested the sim-body with the locket, it had been unable to produce any results at first, because the sim-body had no emotion. Artemis had been afraid, at that point, that he had given himself away – the sim-body did have traits that demonstrated it was a living thing with magic, after all. But when he determined that emotions were simply a very unique brand of psychological energy, it hadn't been very difficult to duplicate the results. All he had to do was find chemicals with energy with wavelength patterns that matched that of human emotions. A little bit of brain fluid analysis, and he could isolate those hormones and periodically inject them into the sim-body.

Since the Horcrux could not "see" things, like facial expressions or emotions, it had to rely completely on the energy radiation for hints about the outside world – just like how the properties of distant stars could only be determined through the data gathered by the detectors on some massive telescopes. The locket could not determine exact emotions, just the energy imprints those emotions gave off, which were then translated back into emotion. For example, "sad" corresponded to pattern 72913. If a real person was sad, the Horcrux would not detect sadness, but energy wavelength 72913, and that would translate to sadness.

Clearly, this system was highly imperfect, because a chemical reaction that literally emitted depression could produce the same effect, leading to some highly interesting misconceptions.

Locket-Voldemort had quickly absorbed all of this extra energy – energy was energy, after all, regardless of whether it was real emotion or not – as soon as it had begun coming. Artemis supposed that this lack of suspicion was due to a combination of arrogance, and, like the diary, an internal desire to escape the vessel. There were, after all, many reasons why no emotion could be detected at first, even when it was clear that there was a living, breathing, magical being close to it. The connection could have simply been weak; perhaps it was natural for there to be a time gap before the horcrux could latch onto a person's emotions and start controlling them; or, the person could have been an Occlumens, albeit a rather weak one, hence the reason why it took time for mental energy to begin leaking out.

The next test was to see whether the body could be possessed. Artemis poured as much energy as he could into the locket, through the sim-body, of course (he wasn't stupid) and observed what the locket tried to do. However, the locket never achieved possession of the body when Artemis was controlling it – Artemis had to release his puppeteer-like hold on the sim-body before the soul piece could do anything. Clearly, 1/32 of a soul was too small of a shard to successfully overpower a resident soul, unless it was a very young child or a feeble-minded animal, unlike the diary, which had clearly been able to take over Ginny Weasley. It seemed a bit unusual, that a Horcrux could possess someone, even if it was only half the regular size – then again, Tom Riddle had mentioned something about trust and stupidity.

Tom Riddle's magical prowness and intelligence, combined with Ginny Weasley's young age and naïve, trusting nature, would have been enough to make her whole consciousness succumb to his half-consciousness.

But 1/32? Even then, that was too small of a piece. The most Artemis could feel was a negative influence.

Experiment with the locket done, Artemis decided it would be best to destroy the body to remove any traces of residual magic. No doubt diary-Riddle would recognize his magical signature, if Artemis went the same route.

What Artemis needed was a fake identity, along with fake emotions. Researching a real person would be too difficult; there would be some holes in their story eventually. No, it would have to be someone whom Tom Riddle had never met before. Someone that could accurately play the part of a carefree, unsuspecting person.

Someone he could magically analyze and without being suspected…

* * *

"Juliet!" Artemis called. "Can you help me for a second?"

"Oh, look," Juliet called back. "He's finally risen from the dead."

"Very funny," Artemis said. "I need your help."

"Sure," she said cheerfully, bounding up the stairs. She came to a halt before him and snapped her gum. Artemis wrinkled his nose. He still hadn't forgiven her for the lollipop incident.

Artemis walked over to the side of his room, where his closet lay.

"Artemis, if you want to reorganize your wardrobe, why don't you just use magic to do it? It's not like we follow the rules anyway. You perform underage magic in front of Muggles like Butler and me all the time," Juliet said.

"My wardrobe is already organized quite well, thank you very much," Artemis said curtly. "This is different."

As an extra precaution, he had hidden his entire laboratory complex inside his closet – with liberal use of massive-scale space-expansion charms. There were several layers to this security system. The first required no password; if anyone opened it, all they would see was a regular (magical) closet – with the usual clothes (Armani suits and robes) and shoeboxes.

The second layer required a password – heavily protected, but with a backdoor. That way, if anyone that knew anything about magic ever tried to break into it, they would come across a series of powerful, but not impossible protections – as expected of a child genius. When it opened, it revealed nothing but a blank slate.

Said hacker would most likely become suspicious and search for a third passage. The third passage was, of course, more well-hidden and strongly protected than the second passage. It would probably take at least a week, several hospital visits, and possibly even a few deaths, for a highly skilled team to untie the wards. A year, if they were attempting the break-in through brute force. When they finally did so, they would find a stockpile of gold (which Artemis didn't really care about being stolen anyway, since he could always make more with the Philosopher's Stone – assuming that someone would actually go through the trouble to raid his closet in the first place).

And since three was one of the main magical numbers, the tired-out team would most likely decide that it was the last of the wards and call it a day. It would make sense, after all, for the average genius. One obvious opening, one decoy, and finally, one real chamber, where all the gold was kept. He was a Fowl through and through.

Too bad Artemis wasn't the average genius.

Because behind the third layer, there were two more, and both of these were locked in double-infinity loops – meaning that, even if someone managed to find these wards, he would not be able to untie them anyway – not before the end of time, at least. The fourth layer was where Artemis kept his first laboratory, the one where he contained all of his legal experiments, such as with magical signatures, genetics, and such. The fifth and final lab was surrounded with double-double-infinity loops, and that was where he kept, obviously, all of his illegal experiments. That included the set of Time-Turners he had stolen from the Ministry, the two Horcruxes he currently had in his possession, and a new room (still under construction) that he was intending to store Dementors in.

Juliet's sim-body, however, only required use of the fourth layer – for now. Artemis tapped the necessary passwords – linked to his magical signature and DNA – to open that part.

"What in the world?" Juliet asked, shaking her head. "Don't tell me you've found Narnia."

"I hate to break it to you, Juliet, but Narnia was nothing more than a Biblical allegory," Artemis said. "No magical merit whatsoever. Although it was a very decent piece of literature – for preschoolers."

Juliet narrowed her eyes, and put her hands on her hips. "I'll have you know I actually liked that series!"

"And I'll have you know that I did, too, when I first read it – in preschool."

Juliet rolled her eyes. "What are you planning, Artemis?"

Artemis gestured with his hands. "You're about to find out."

"It doesn't involve pain or maiming in any way?"

"Not that I know of," Artemis said carefully.

Juliet frowned. "And what if I say no?"

Artemis shrugged. "I'll Confund you and make you do it anyway."

Juliet rolled her eyes, but did as she was told.

* * *

Artemis led her into the mental energy detection chamber. Since she wasn't magical, and the sim-body already contained some unique magic of its own anyway, Artemis would neither have to duplicate her magical signature nor configure the sim-body to be compatible with a foreign energy pattern. "Lie down, please."

Juliet looked at the contraption. "Is this supposed to be an MRI scanner?"

"Of sorts," Artemis said. "Now close your eyes. I'm going to present you with a situation, and ask you some questions, all right? This will be purely hypothetical."

"All right."

"Now, first, you must pretend that you are no longer Juliet Butler. Instead, you are just a random, normal teenage girl."

"Do I know about magic?" Juliet asked, turning her head inside the tunnel.

"Yes. Pretend that you are an average witch. And stop moving," Artemis said.

"But I don't know how to do any magic," protested Juliet.

"Doesn't matter. You've seen magic, and how it works. Imagine that you are a regular, sixteen-year-old hormonal teenage girl at Hogwarts. You're dealing with mean teachers, difficult classes, exams, bullies that torment you, and relationship issues."

Juliet wrinkled her nose. "Why?"

"Just bear with me for now. It's for an experiment. I know you're not like this in reality, but just imagine that you're one of the bratty teenage girls that always appear in every soap opera that you watch. You're plain and unremarkable, yet you desire to be pretty and noticed. You have a crush on the most popular boy in school – he's the Head Boy, and the Quidditch captain, and he gets his House at least fifty points every week. You've learned about Hogwarts; just pretend you're there."

Juliet squirmed. "I don't know, Artemis. I never went to a regular high school."

Artemis sighed. "You've watched the television dramas; just copy them!"

"What is this for again?"

Artemis pinched the bridge of his nose. "Just do as I say."

"Okay."

Artemis continued the story again. "Your parents are also extremely average. They are both magical. Your father works for the Ministry; he has a lower-mid-level job doing menial paperwork in the foreign exchange department. Your mother stays at home and does housework. Neither of them are very remarkable, either. You wish that you were rich, like…Geraldine Parkinson, who lives in a manor and has three house-elves, but you hate the Slytherins because they are always so stuck-up. Oh, and you're in Hufflepuff, too."

Juliet hummed. Artemis quickly began recording her brain activity. Soon, her imagination had created an extremely cliché teenage drama story.

"All right. Very good, Juliet. Now try putting some more emotion into that. Stress – you're always working so hard at all of your classes, but you can never get anything above an E. Most of your grades are simply Acceptable. Hurt – the mean Slytherin girls made fun of you again. Embarrassment, over some trivial things, like being made fun of in front of a crush that never knew your name, anyway. Mortification – you tried to talk to your crush, the handsome and charming Gryffindor Head Boy and Quidditch captain, and he stared at you, not knowing who you were. His friends, who are always surrounding him, make fun of you, and then the entire school is laughing at you. He laughs at you, too. Your life is completely horrible, and you hate it."

Juliet snorted. "I'm sorry, Artemis. I can't do this. I find this story too funny to feel things like that."

"Fine. Just imagine those scenes in your head for now. Try to keep your emotions blank."

Juliet did so.

"Now remember actual things that made you extremely stressed, or embarrassed – like your work under Madame Ko, for instance, or your wrestling career."

Juliet winced, but did as asked.

Finally, Artemis managed to get all of the data he needed. He disconnected Juliet from the machine, and led her out of the closet again. Juliet rolled her eyes as she stepped past the door, still slightly wobbly from the ordeal. "Thanks for wasting all those hours of my time, Artemis," she huffed.

"You were busy watching the television, anyway," Artemis said.

"Yeah, and I was enjoying WrestleMania, thank you very much!" she huffed.

Artemis shook his head. "Oh, Juliet, one last thing."

She turned back to him. "What?"

"Obliviate."


End file.
